


one hell of a curse

by arysa13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Curses, Dubious Consent, Embarrassment, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Roommates, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: Clarke accidentally wishes to know what it’s like to have sex with her best friend Bellamy. She doesn’t expect the wish to come true, or for it to backfire quite so spectacularly.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 89
Kudos: 564
Collections: Bellarke smut





	one hell of a curse

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the song voodoo doll by ashley mcbryde
> 
> [bellamy’s sex playlist](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fopen.spotify.com%2Fplaylist%2F1Nx2reX87lnWN34th1ZTtT%3Fsi%3DZZCV2gG-QTKI0Dw8OJD3iA&t=OTNmMWUwNWVmYmVjOTE3ZDU3N2M5NGEwY2VmNWQwNzAxZTkwZjQ2OSwwZDFmN2MyODcwMTA5MmVhMjJlNDZjOGU4NzczMDMxMWYzNjI1ZDQ3&ts=1601324073)

Clarke doesn’t believe in wishes. She doesn’t believe in shooting stars, or dandelions, or 11:11. She certainly doesn’t believe in wishing wells. If you want something, you have to work for it. Simply _wishing_ for it isn’t going to make it happen. The idea is ludicrous.

But it’s the request of the newlyweds that all the guests take a coin and toss it into the wishing well, and make a wish. All the proceeds from the wishing well go to the Rainforest Alliance, so at least it’s not a totally pointless exercise. And Clarke figures she can just wish for the happiness and longevity of Monty and Harper’s marriage. She thinks they’d appreciate the sentiment.

She stands by the big stone well, quarter in one hand, champagne flute in the other. A permanent accessory for the day. She may be a little tipsy.

The well is situated right by the entrance of the hedge maze, separated from the grassy glade where the reception is in full swing by a spectacular rose garden, in which the ceremony had taken place under a rose adorned arbor. It really has been the most beautiful wedding Clarke has seen in her life, and that’s not excluding Harper’s wood nymph inspired wedding dress, and Monty’s custom moss green suit.

Clarke stares into the well. It’s the kind of well from a storybook, like a fairy tale she can’t quite put her finger on. Did Rumpelstiltskin live in a well? No, there were three sisters—who lived on treacle? That can’t be right.

She can’t see the bottom. She wonders who collects the coins and how they do it.

“Are you actually making a wish or just contemplating throwing yourself into the well?” Anya asks her. She’s lit a cigarette, and Clarke screws up her nose as the stench assaults her nostrils. “Or are you going to vomit?”

“You go first,” Clarke says.

Anya steps forward and tosses a quarter into the well. “I wish they’d hurry up and cut the cake so I can leave.”

“No one forced you to come,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes. She resists telling Anya that her wish won’t come true now that she’s said it out loud. She’s not a child. And anyway, she doesn’t believe in wishes.

“Actually, Lincoln did force me to come. Just make your wish already.”

Clarke sighs, and flicks her quarter into the well. Before she can formulate her wish in her mind, she’s distracted by a giggling, drunk couple trying—and failing—to sneak inconspicuously out of the maze.

Bellamy’s tie and top buttons are undone—as is his fly, now that she’s looking in that general direction, and Roma’s hair is a mess. Clarke’s stomach lurches. It’s not half obvious what they’ve been up to. Clarke stares at them, colour flooding her cheeks, jealousy coursing through her veins. She grits her teeth as Bellamy and Roma stop in their tracks, noticing the onlookers for the first time.

“Oh, hey Clarke,” Bellamy says, and he at least has the decency to look somewhat sheepish. He runs a hand over his tousled curls. Roma, however, looks like the cat who got the cream, and she’s positively glowing with post orgasm bliss. They always look like that, the girls Bellamy sleeps with. It makes Clarke ache with want, and seethe with envy.

She thinks he’d probably fuck her, if she asked. If she swore it was a one-time thing, and that it wouldn’t ruin eight years of friendship. But the problem is, she’s kind of maybe sort of in love with him as well. And she doesn’t think one night of mind-blowing sex would cure that problem in the slightest.

And now that Roma’s in the picture, and has been a sort of fixture in his life for a while now, things seem more hopeless than ever.

“Sorry,” Roma laughs, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “We didn’t realise you were there.”

“I hope you kids used protection,” Anya says, flicking ash from her cigarette, then taking a long drag.

“Your fly is undone,” is all Clarke says. Bellamy looks down and quickly corrects the situation, while Roma bursts into a fit of giggles again.

When Bellamy looks back up, he’s blushing, and he looks so fucking adorable and sexy at the same time, with his dishevelled clothes and hair, and that guilty but smug look on his beautifully freckled face. Clarke thinks she might actually die if she doesn’t get to kiss him at least once in her life.

“Let’s go,” Roma says, and the pair stumble back towards the rose garden.

“God, I wish I knew what it was like to fuck him,” Clarke groans out loud, hanging her head over the wishing well. She also wishes she knew what it was like to be married to him, but that’s beside the point. Right now, she’s horny, and the guy she’s in love with has been looking stupidly handsome in his suit all day.

“I don’t think you’d have any trouble getting him to fuck you,” Anya muses. “He stares at your tits a lot.” Anya glances at said tits, popping out of the calf-length, forget-me-not blue dress Clarke’s wearing. “Although there’s not a lot else to look at.”

Clarke glances down. She’s not ashamed, she knows she looks good. Somehow she doubts Bellamy noticed that though. If he hasn’t noticed she’s hot in eight years, one cleavage-baring dress is not going to make him suddenly want her.

Her phone pings with a text, and she pulls it out of her shoulder bag to look at it. It’s from Finn. Right, the date she brought to this wedding, despite having only been seeing him two weeks. But she’d ticked yes to a plus one when the invitations came out, a little too optimistically—or maybe out of spite, since she saw Bellamy tick yes as well. So it’s not like she had a choice.

Finn is probably by the bar—he’s barely left the immediate vicinity all day. Not that Clarke can judge. She’s lost count of what number glass of champagne she’s on.

“Finn says they’re about to cut the cake,” Clarke says.

“Fucking finally,” Anya mutters, tossing her cigarette to the ground and stamping it out with the pointed toe of her black stiletto. “I guess wishes really do come true.”

-

When the reception is over, and Monty and Harper have been whisked away to the hotel they’re spending the night at, Clarke and some of the others head to a nearby bar. It’s early, after all, and occasions like this are rare. Even Anya joins them.

It’s Saturday night, and the bar is crowded, but other patrons seem to migrate away from them, many with exasperated or annoyed expressions on their faces, and the group of sixteen manages to spread themselves over three adjacent tables, mostly oblivious to the distaste of the people around them.

Perhaps it would be frustrating to have your night invaded by an overly rambunctious wedding party, but Clarke is drunk enough that she’s not worried about the effect their behaviour might have on some snooty strangers.

She ends up wedged between Finn and Anya, with a choice view of Roma on Bellamy’s lap across the table. She’s never had such an aversion to PDA before. She sips at her white wine, trying not to sulk.

Jasper rounds out their table, his green jacket over the back of his chair and a glass of rum and coke in his hand. He raises it towards the ceiling, as if they haven’t done enough toasts today. His best man’s speech had been humorous and charming, but Clarke is pretty sure he’s too drunk now to replicate that performance.

“To Monty and Harper,” he yells. “Screw them for ditching us to go have sex.”

There are some hoots from the other tables, and Finn too. He probably assumes he’s getting lucky tonight. Clarke doesn’t know if she can be bothered. She watches as Roma leans down to whisper something in Bellamy’s ear. Clarke’s stomach churns. How has it been two months of this, and still she reacts like this every time?

Bellamy grins, and then Roma slips off his lap, heading towards the bathroom. Bellamy meets Clarke’s eyes as he reaches for his drink.

“Having fun, princess?” he says.

“Sure,” she says. She should be having fun. She’s tipsy, surrounded by all her friends on a warm July evening, nothing weighing on her shoulders. She should be happy. But her mood is soured by Roma’s presence. Clarke can’t even look at her without feeling the dark abyss of jealousy opening up inside her.

“Hey,” Finn interjects. Clarke had totally forgotten about his presence. “Get your own nickname.”

Bellamy gives Clarke a look that says _who is this guy_ , and Clarke ducks her head, hiding her laugh. When she looks up Bellamy is still grinning at her, his eyes all crinkled in the corners, and Clarke feels like they’re the only two people who exist in the bar.

“He’s known her eight years, Finn,” Jasper points out. “I think he may have been using that nickname before you.”

Truthfully, Bellamy had only picked up the nickname when he heard Finn use it, found it hilarious, and now uses it to tease her. She pretends to hate it, obviously.

“Whatever,” Finn scowls. Clarke ignores him. What is his problem anyway?

Bellamy’s phone lights up where it’s resting on the table and he quickly grabs it, briefly scanning the message then tucking the phone into his pocket, before rising from his chair.

“Bathroom,” he explains, and it only takes Clarke half a second to realise he’s probably meeting Roma there. A scowl to match Finn’s arranges itself on her face.

God, she wishes neither of them had bought dates to this stupid wedding. Not even just because she’s jealous, but because this whole day would have been so much more fun if she’d spent it with her best friend. Not that it wasn’t enjoyable. But she can’t stop imagining little snippets of herself and Bellamy, wandering through the rose garden, getting drunk together, sneaking off to run through the maze, throwing coins into the well in unison.

She remembers suddenly that she never actually made a wish. Oh well, if Monty or Harper ask, she’ll just say she wished for world peace.

Finn heads to the bar to get another drink, and Jasper seems to decide this table isn’t lively enough, and goes to join Monroe, Raven, Wells, and Sterling on the table to their left. From the looks of things, everyone else seems to be having a good time.

“I think you bummed him out with your moping,” Anya notes.

“I’m not _moping_ ,” Clarke huffs.

“What would you call it? Pining? Sulking?”

“I’m not— _oh_ ,” she cuts herself off, surprised by an odd burst of pressure on her lips. Almost like—well almost like she’s being kissed by an invisible force.

“What?” Anya says, frowning.

“Nothing,” Clarke squeaks. The feeling has stopped now. She probably imagined it, and she’s not about to try and explain it to Anya.

Half a second later, she feels a hand slide up her thigh. She tries to swat it away, turning her head, half expecting to see Finn there, trying to make a move, but he’s still at the bar. There’s no one.

“Okay, well, I’m going outside for a smoke,” Anya says, taking her leave. Clarke just nods, too focused on the weird sensations to take much note of what Anya is doing.

There’s a hand on her waist now, and one gripping her ass, which she knows is impossible, because _a._ she’s sitting on a chair, and _b._ there’s _no one fucking close enough to her to touch her._

Lips latch onto her neck, and she gasps. The hand on her waist moves, and then there’s a thumb pressed against her slit. Her pussy throbs.

She’s going crazy. She’s so lonely and desperate for sex (Finn doesn’t count) she’s literally imagining that someone is touching her in the middle of this crowded bar, and her imagination is so vivid she can actually _feel_ the touch.

Either that, or she’s being felt up by a ghost. But she believes in ghosts about as much as she believes in wishes.

Whatever—or whoever—it is, ghost or imagination or some other force entirely, they know what they’re doing. Clarke’s thoughts drift to Bellamy as a big hand—definitely a man’s hand—slips into her panties, and rough fingers graze her clit.

She’s thankful the bar is loud, and she’s alone at her table, because the sound she lets out is embarrassing. She squeezes her legs together, trying to get the feeling to stop. Her cunt is pulsing, and arousal leaks into her panties. It’s no use—a pair of thick fingers work their way into her cunt. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She squirms in her seat. Her face feels all hot, and she’s breathing heavy.

What the fuck is happening to her? Is this like that one episode of Grey’s Anatomy where the woman had some medical condition that caused spontaneous orgasms? Because, _fuck_ , with the phantom fingers in her cunt, a thumb caressing her clit, and her mind conjuring up the image of Bellamy, she’s right on the verge.

She slides down in her seat, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and her legs squeezed together tighter still. God, this can’t be happening. She’s pretty sure no one’s watching, but still, she’s one correctly placed thrust of a finger away from coming in her seat. And why does that thought only turn her on more?

And then, abruptly, it stops. Clarke isn’t sure if she’s relieved or disappointed. She opens her eyes, and looks around to see if anyone noticed her strange fit. No one is paying the slightest bit of attention to her. Even Finn is still at the bar, talking animatedly to some random guy he clearly just met.

Clarke manages to steady her breathing just as Bellamy and Roma get back, both looking guilty but pleased with themselves. Clarke does her best not to roll her eyes.

“We’re going to take off,” Bellamy says. “There’s, uh—not as much privacy in the bathrooms as we’d hoped.”

“We _may_ have been interrupted,” Roma giggles. Clarke seriously hates the sound of her laugh.

“In a public restroom? No,” Clarke says. The sarcasm goes over Roma’s head, but Bellamy gives her a sheepish look.

“Are you okay?” he asks her, tilting his head. “You look a little flushed.”

The observation only makes her face and chest redder, as she’s reminded of the unusual circumstances that led to her current scarlet colour. She must be clashing with her blue dress terribly.

“It’s hot in here,” she says quickly. “Can I come with you guys? I think I’ve had enough too.” She so doesn’t want to stick around here and find out if she’s going to have another _episode_.

“Sure,” Bellamy says easily, and Roma slaps his chest. “Ow.”

“What about Finn?” Roma says. “I thought you were staying at his place tonight.”

Clarke looks over to where Finn is still engaged in conversation with his new friend, who is apparently better company than she is today.

“She doesn’t have to go with Finn if she doesn’t want to,” Bellamy says, more defensively than the situation calls for.

“I won’t get in the way,” Clarke promises. “I’m just tired, I want to go to bed.”

She also wants to get her vibrator out and give herself the orgasm she’d so rudely been robbed of only minutes ago, but she doesn’t say that part out loud.

Roma blows out a puff of air. “Fine,” she concedes. As if she could stop Clarke from going to her own house? The nerve.

“I’ll just let Finn know.”

“We’ll meet you outside,” Bellamy nods.

They say their goodbyes to their drunk friends, and Clarke gives Finn a peck on the cheek as she tells him she’s going home. He seems disappointed, but not surprised.

When the Uber arrives, Clarke climbs into the back seat, much to Roma’s obvious annoyance, since it means she and Bellamy will be separated. Clarke is well aware she’s cockblocking, and she’s not _entirely_ doing it on purpose, but she’s not _not_ doing it on purpose.

Bellamy takes the front seat, and he and Roma chat with the Uber driver on the way home, while Clarke stares out the window, pondering over the strange occurrence in the bar. She can’t make sense of it. She’s half convinced she imagined the whole thing—she was kind of drunk, after all. Maybe she fell asleep and had a weird sex dream. It’s really the only non-supernatural explanation she can think of, and she decides that must have been it.

They reach the apartment she shares with Bellamy—one neither of them could afford alone. They’d inspected it together when Clarke was looking for a place, despite knowing it was way out of her price range. But she kind of fell in love with it, and she tried to tell Bellamy she didn’t like it that much, but he saw right through it. He said he was tired of living with Murphy anyway, and now he’s been living with Clarke for four years.

Roma ducks off to the bathroom as soon as they’re inside—evidently she had not used the bathroom at the bar for its intended purpose—and Clarke heads for her room, until Bellamy stops her, grabbing her arm.

“Clarke,” he says, his voice laced with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been pretty quiet all night.”

Clarke shrugs. “I guess. I don’t know—maybe it’s a little bittersweet to see your friends get married. Like, I’m happy for them, obviously. But there’s also a tiny part of me that’s jealous. Is that bad to say?”

Bellamy chuckles. “No, I know what you mean. God, good on them. But why the fuck can’t that be me?”

Clarke laughs. “Exactly.”

“That’s the dream, right?” Bellamy whispers. “Marrying your best friend?”

Clarke’s heart skitters. Does she dare to remind him that _he’s_ her best friend? She hesitates, and then—“Wouldn’t that mean Monty would marry Jasper then?” she says, chickening out with a joke instead.

Bellamy snorts out a laugh. “I think they’re more like brothers,” he says. He grows serious again. “Do you want me to ask Roma to leave?” he says. “We can just chill out and watch something on Netflix if you want. I feel like I’ve barely seen you all day.”

Clarke chews her lip. “Are you sure?” she asks. “Roma might hate me.”

“She’ll get over it,” Bellamy smiles.

“Okay,” Clarke agrees.

Roma is predictably upset by the turn of events, but to her credit she doesn’t make a scene. She leaves with grace, and an accusatory glare at Clarke. Bellamy puts on a true crime documentary, and Clarke snuggles up to his side, feeling contentment, and some unjustified sense of victory that she finally has him all to herself, at least for the moment.

-

Clarke is in her room reading when Roma comes over the following night. She supposes Bellamy must be forgiven for unceremoniously kicking his girlfriend out last night.

She hears them murmuring down the hallway as they pass her bedroom to go to his. Next thing she hears is the sultry sounds of Bellamy’s sex playlist. She knows it well by now. Sometimes it’s enough to drown out the cries of pleasure, but not always. Thankfully, Roma seems to be on the quiet side and Clarke doesn’t fear for her ears tonight.

Still, her ability to focus on her book is ruined when she knows Bellamy is right next door having sex with someone who isn’t her. She likes it much better when he goes to Roma’s. Not much better, because she’d still rather he was with _her_ but at least she’s less aware of what they’re doing together.

Clarke puts her book aside and picks up her phone as the dulcet tones of Lana Del Rey waft into the room. And then she feels that weird thing again. Lips against her lips—a tongue sliding against hers. A hard body on top of hers. She clamps her mouth shut, but she can still feel it. Teasing, coaxing her mouth open. Fuck, who the _fuck_ kisses like that? She’s sure she can’t be imagining it, because she’s never imagined, let alone experienced, kissing that good.

Still, she pinches herself, just to make sure she’s not dreaming. She’s not. A ghost then, it must be a ghost.

The kissing stops, giving her an opportunity to speak.

“Listen, ghost, or whatever the fuck you are—I’m about done with your shit— _oh—”_

The lips are on her thigh now, and large invisible hands grip her waist. Clarke whimpers as the lips trail higher up her thigh. There’s a steady pulse between her legs, growing in anticipation. She knows where this is leading and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want it. She’s not sure if she wants it enough to get over the weirdness of whatever is happening to her.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she mutters, as the mouth reaches the crease between her thigh and her pussy, and then, barely stifles a moan when the tip of a tongue flicks against her clit.

Strangely, from the next room over, Clarke can quite clearly hear Roma _not_ stifle a moan. Strange because normally Roma is quite quiet, and strange because, well, it happened at exactly the same time as Clarke wanted to moan.

The tongue is insistent—and skilled. Clarke can’t remember the last time someone went down on her—Finn has certainly never offered. She can’t remember it being this good. The tongue works her clit, licks inside her, finds every sensitive spot she has, making her writhe on her bed. She shoves her fist in her mouth to stop herself moaning too loud—past lovers have commented on her inability to keep quiet. She’s never had that problem with Finn, however.

She can hear Roma through the wall, which kind of ruins the experience. It’s mostly just excessive moaning—too over-the-top to be real, Clarke is sure. It’s worse when she starts talking.

“ _Yes, Bellamy_. _Right there. Yes, I love the way you use your tongue_. _Oh my god, I’m going to come on your face._ ”

At the same moment Roma screams in what must be an earth-shattering orgasm, Clarke also reaches breaking point, the tongue finding the exact right spot to bring on her climax, and then she’s shuddering in orgasm, her moan thankfully drowned out by Roma’s.

Clarke collapses, panting. Fuck. _Fuck_. Despite coming down from near the best orgasm she’s ever had, a sick feeling pools in her stomach. It’s quiet next door, except for an Arctic Monkeys song playing moodily.

There’s a notion tickling her brain that she doesn’t like, and she squashes it back down. It’s just because she’d kind of been imagining Bellamy’s head between her legs as the invisible tongue licked her cunt.

It’s just a coincidence, right? That she _happened_ to feel like someone was going down on her at the same time Bellamy was going down on Roma. That they happened to orgasm at the same time.

But—at the bar, too. Roma and Bellamy had been doing god knows what in the bathroom at the same time Clarke first felt these sensations. Is this some kind of weird Freaky Friday situation where she can suddenly feel Roma’s sexual pleasure? Or, worse—where she can feel _Bellamy’s_ sexual _actions_.

No, it makes no sense. She’s going insane. Tomorrow she’s going to go and see a doctor or a psychiatrist or _something_ and figure out what the fuck is going on.

She gasps as she feels a light slap on her ass—again, impossible since her ass is currently flat on the bed. Even a ghost couldn’t do that, right? At the same time, Roma gives a little squeal. Clarke squeezes her eyes shut, trying to deny the proof.

Her stomach flips over when she feels the unmistakable, thick head of a cock, bump against her slit.

“ _Yes, Bellamy, fill me with your thick cock!”_ Roma yells. “ _Take me from behind_.”

Instinctively, Clarke rolls onto her stomach, and sure enough, moments later, she feels her cunt stretching, as if some enormous cock is invading it. It’s Bellamy, in her mind. It’s always Bellamy, but this time it’s really him, she knows it. It should be impossible, but how can she deny it when the proof is right there in Roma’s theatrical performance?

Bellamy’s phantom cock keeps pushing into her, until she’s sure she’s going to break, and she can feel his skin against hers, burning hot. God, is this what he feels like? Massive, bare, pulsing inside her. Even her imagination was never this good.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” she hears Roma say, echoing Clarke’s own thoughts.

She’s moans out loud when Bellamy starts thrusting, and she has to grab her pillow, bury her face in it. He’s big, god, he’s so big it almost hurts. She blocks out the sounds of Roma, all that exists to her is Bellamy’s body on top of her, his cock splitting her in half, thrusting into her over and over and over.

She bites her pillow to keep from crying out his name, and tears run down her cheeks from the exertion. She’s gasping, moaning into her pillow, her hands fisted in her sheets. Her face is hot as hell, both from desire and embarrassment. How is this simultaneously the most pleasurable and the most humiliating moment of her life?

Pleasure coils in her lower belly, the feel of Bellamy’s cock winding her tighter and tighter, until she finally breaks, sobbing, moaning, trying to muffle her sounds of pure bliss. She comes so hard her eyes roll back into her head and she sees white.

When she finally comes down again, panting, she can still feel him between her legs, still going, until moments later she feels release thick spurts of semen into her. It’s shameful how much she wants it to be real, how much she likes the thought of having Bellamy’s come inside her.

Instead, it’s Roma, next door, who gets that, who gets the real thing, the real Bellamy, the real experience. Clarke just gets some weird facsimile of it.

She doesn’t understand how, or why, but she knows deep down it’s true. It’s Bellamy she can feel touching her—tonight, and last night at the bar.

His cock slips out of her, and she’s left feeling achingly empty. She likes to be held after sex, and she won’t get that tonight. Maybe she’s just had two of the most amazing orgasms of her life, but instead of feeling elated, she feels soul-crushingly lonely.

When she’s recovered slightly, and her breathing has somewhat returned to normal, she gets up to go to the bathroom. Her panties are absolutely fucking drenched. She splashes water on her face, then stares into the mirror, gripping the sink. How has she landed herself in this absolutely batshit crazy situation? And how does she get it to stop? How the fuck is she going to continue on as normal, how can she look at him, knowing exactly what his cock feels like inside her, while he’s none the wiser?

She gives a low groan, full of self-loathing and embarrassment, and yes, some arousal at the memory of how fucking huge he felt inside her, then pulls herself somewhat together. She pulls the bathroom door open, only to find Bellamy standing there looking startled, reaching out for the door handle.

She meets his eyes, then hastily has to look away, her face heating up all over again. All she can think about is his cock, pounding into her cunt. God, how is she ever going to look at him again?

“Oh, sorry,” he says. “Didn’t realise you were in there.”

“It’s fine,” Clarke squeaks, then tries to quickly dodge past him.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Splendid,” Clarke says, and he frowns at her. Perhaps her use of the word _splendid_ has given away how splendid she is in fact not.

He seems to catch on to her embarrassment then, and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry—you didn’t hear…” he trails off.

“Um,” Clarke says, and god, she absolutely wants to die. “A little,” she admits.

Bellamy flushes. “Sorry,” he repeats. “She’s not normally like that, I don’t know what her deal is lately. It’s kind of off-putting you know, when she’s so obviously putting it on. Like, I’m not an idiot, I know it wasn’t _that_ good.”

That’s where he’s wrong, but Clarke doesn’t correct him. What’s she supposed to say? _Actually, Bellamy, I know from personal experience that it was that good_.

“Can we stop talking about this?” she says instead. “Way too much information.”

Bellamy clears his throat, turning red. “Right, sorry. I’ll let you get back to bed. We’ll try not to keep you awake.”

Clarke nods shortly, then scurries back to her room. She puts her pyjamas on and crawls into bed, praying Bellamy and Roma are done for the night. There’s only so much pretend—albeit mind-blowing—sex a girl can handle.

-

Clarke wakes early the next morning, relieved to not have experienced anymore of Bellamy and Roma’s sexual activity through the night. Although there’s an odd sense of disappointment too—she didn’t expect him to be a one and done kind of guy. And perhaps, deep down, she was hoping she’d get to feel him again.

Maybe it’s a good thing they’ve never hooked up before, if he clearly doesn’t have the stamina to keep up with her sexual needs. She could’ve gone another round at least last night.

She tiptoes out of her room and into the kitchen to make her coffee, only to be ambushed in there by Roma three seconds later. Her hair is all messy, and she’s wearing one of Bellamy’s shirts. A jealous rage surges over Clarke, and she curls her hands into fists, her fingernails digging into her palms, to stop herself from tearing the damn thing off Roma, as if she has any right to it herself.

“Oh my god, hi, Clarke,” Roma says, as if they’ve randomly run into each other at the grocery store, and not in Clarke’s own kitchen. “So sorry about last night, Bellamy said you could hear me. I’m so embarrassed!”

Clarke presses her lips together tightly. Roma is clearly far from embarrassed, in fact, her tone could be construed as closer to bragging. It dawns on Clarke that the performance last night was entirely for her benefit and nothing to do with Bellamy at all. Payback for cockblocking the other night, probably. The question is, was she just trying to be annoying, or does she suspect Clarke’s embarrassingly enormous crush on Bellamy?

Clarke manages a fake laugh. “It’s fine,” she says, eager to change the subject. Or better yet, escape the conversation entirely. But Roma isn’t done.

“He’s just _so good_ , you know,” Roma says. “Well, I mean you don’t _know,_ do you?” she laughs. Clarke, of course, does know, but it’s not like she can admit to that. “But trust me. It’s a shame you’ll never get to experience it.”

Clarke finds herself blushing for two reasons. One, the unwanted memory of how she has already experienced it and how she knows Roma isn’t actually exaggerating all that much. And two, because it’s such an obvious possessive statement. _Bellamy is mine, and won’t ever be yours._ Which probably means she knows about Clarke’s stupid crush. Clarke elects to ignore this implication. What is she going to do, admit it? Like hell.

“I’m sure he’s great,” Clarke says. “I’ve never really thought about it. I’m lucky Finn is pretty amazing in that department too,” she lies.

“Oh,” Roma says. Clarke can’t tell if she believes her or not. “Lucky you!”

Mercifully, Roma drops the subject after that, and allows Clarke to make her coffee in peace. She leaves soon after, and Clarke breathes a sigh of relief that there won’t be any sexual escapades she’ll have to endure this morning. But she’s also annoyed at Roma for not making the most of what she has.

Bellamy is in his room, probably naked, and Roma can just leave that easily, without even sucking his cock? The lack of appreciation is astounding. If Clarke were his girlfriend, she’d be on her knees every fucking morning, giving him what he deserves.

Too bad she’ll never get the opportunity.

-

As much as Clarke knows this whole _being able to feel Bellamy fucking Roma_ thing is insane, she has to tell someone. It’s too insane _not_ to tell someone. And when she runs through the list of potential candidates to carry this burden with her, she lands on Anya.

Not Wells, because he’d probably be jealous. Not Monty, or Harper, or Raven, because they probably wouldn’t believe her. Jasper would find it hilarious and tell everyone. She’s not really close enough with anyone else, except Bellamy, and she can’t tell _him_ for obvious reasons. So, Anya it is.

They meet for lunch, when Anya is between classes at the gym where she works as a kickboxing instructor, and Clarke doesn’t have any art therapy sessions scheduled.

“What’s so urgent that you had to see me _now_?” Anya grumbles, throwing herself into the seat across from Clarke at the café Clarke has chosen. “We saw each other two days ago.”

Clarke blinks at her. She’d kind of been hoping for a little small talk before she had to explain her bizarre situation. She should know by now she won’t get that with Anya.

“Don’t you want to order first?”

Anya clicks her fingers at a nearby waiter, orders two chicken Caesar salads and two coffees, then shoves the menu at the poor guy, effectively dismissing him. Clarke doesn’t bother trying to tell Anya she’d actually wanted the quiche.

“So?” Anya prompts. “What’s up?”

Clarke hesitates. She knows there is no way to explain this and not sound like she’s gone completely mad.

“Something weird has been happening to me,” she starts. “It’s going to sound crazy, I know that. But I swear I’m not imagining it.”

“I’m intrigued. Go on.”

“I think—I think I can _feel_ when Bellamy is you know,” she swallows, “fucking someone.”

Anya squints at her. “Like a stabbing pain in your heart because you’re so jealous it’s not you?”

“No, like I can literally feel his dick inside me, as if it’s me he’s fucking.”

Anya stares some more. “You’re right, it does sound crazy.”

“I know that,” Clarke hisses. “It’s crazy, and humiliating, and I don’t know how it happened or what to do.”

“Well, it’s obvious how it happened,” Anya snorts. “You wished for it.”

“I did not _wish_ for it,” Clarke huffs. “Why would I wish for that? If wishes were real, I’d just wish for him to _actually_ fuck me.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t though,” Anya says matter-of-factly. “I believe your exact words were _I wish I knew what it was like to fuck him_.” Clarke’s mouth drops open. “At the wishing well, remember?”

“You don’t think—you don’t believe in that shit, do you?”

“I believe in witches and ghosts and voodoo, why wouldn’t I believe in wishing wells?”

“I thought you were a cynic.”

“I have layers, Clarke.”

Clarke purses her lips. She really doesn’t want to believe in wishes or curses or whatever. But what choice does she have, when something so completely out of the realm of possibility has happened to her? She can’t deny what she felt last night, and the night before. It wasn’t in her head. It was _real_. And she knows in her bones it’s Bellamy she could feel. And if what Anya says is true, and Clarke spoke those words out loud after tossing her coin into the well, then isn’t that really the only plausible explanation?

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Clarke groans, just as the waiter brings their coffees and salads.

“Please don’t.”

“You believe me though?”

“You’ve never been a practical joker, Clarke,” Anya says. “And you have nothing to gain by lying about this. I’ve no choice but to believe you.”

“So what am I going to do about it?”

Anya shrugs. “Go back to the well and unwish your wish?”

Clarke screws up her nose. Even if maybe she’s coming around to the idea of the wish being the cause of her predicament, she would feel like an absolute fool going back to those gardens to make another wish in the hopes of counteracting the original wish.

Anya rolls her eyes at Clarke’s distaste. “Either that or try fucking him for real. Maybe that will break the spell or whatever.”

“He has a girlfriend.”

“And? You still wouldn’t make a move even if he were single because you’re absolute chicken shit.”

Clarke tries to be offended, but she knows Anya’s right. It’s not like there haven’t been times the last eight years they’ve been friends that they’ve both been single. And yet, Clarke has always held her tongue, never made a move. What if she fucked up the bond they have by trying to make it into something it isn’t? She couldn’t bear it if she lost him just because she couldn’t be happy just being his friend.

“Maybe if I just… get over him, this—curse or whatever it is, will go away.”

“Right, because getting over him has worked so well for you in the past.”

“Just shut up and eat your salad.”

-

Clarke does not take Anya’s advice. After all, taking advice has never been her strong suit, so why should she start now? No, better to follow her own instincts. At least then if things go wrong, she has no one to blame but herself.

So, ignoring everything Anya said, Clarke starts operation Get Over Bellamy. Which mostly just entails actually spending time with the guy she’s supposedly seeing, Finn. Once they get to know each other better and form a real connection, she’ll forget all about Bellamy, and the curse will be broken.

He agrees to a date on a Tuesday night, which either means he’s already head-over-heels in love with her, or he’s just desperate to get laid. Probably the latter, but that suits Clarke just fine. Their previous sexual encounters haven’t exactly been memorable, but they haven’t been _awful_ either, and Clarke is sure she can train him how to please her. He has a kind of eager puppy vibe about him that she thinks she can work with.

Finn lets Clarke organise the date. She can’t decide if she likes the fact that she gets to be in control, or if she’s disappointed he didn’t want to put in the effort. She catches herself daydreaming in the shower about what a date with Bellamy would be like, as she’s readying herself for a date with another man.

She and Bellamy don’t talk too much about their love lives with each other—everything else, yes. Perhaps the subject of dating is so taboo with them simply because Clarke can’t bear to hear about him with someone else.

Still, she’s not entirely oblivious to what he gets up to. There’s the sex playlist, for instance. And she knows he’s taken Roma to museums, and paintballing, because she complained about both of them. The museums were too boring, and the paintballing made her all bruised and sweaty.

Hearing that had just annoyed Clarke. Bellamy is wasted on Roma. She doesn’t appreciate him the way Clarke would. Clarke wouldn’t find a museum boring, especially if she got to hold Bellamy’s hand the whole time. And paintballing would be fun, although she can think of _other_ activities she’d rather do with him that would leave her just as bruised and sweaty.

Once she’s scrubbed, plucked, shaved and moisturised within an inch of her life, Clarke sets to doing her hair and make-up in the bathroom mirror. Bellamy appears in the doorway, and Clarke watches him kind of hover there in the reflection, like he’s not sure what to do with himself.

“Everything okay?” Clarke asks him. It’s unnerving, having him watch her like that. Especially when her body is still acutely aware of the things he can do to it, without even actually having to lay a finger on her. She’s trying not to think about his cock, but of course, she’s absolutely thinking about his cock.

But it’s surprisingly easy to pretend she’s not thinking about it, to pretend she hasn’t felt him inside her. She’s gotten way too good at hiding her true feelings.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know, you don’t normally hang around and watch me put make-up on,” Clarke says.

He shrugs. “You don’t normally have dates in the middle of the week. You really like him, huh?”

“I guess,” Clarke says.

“Where’s he taking you?”

“I booked a table at that Greek place you’re always raving about. Thought I should finally give it a try since you say I’d love it so much.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and Clarke pauses with her mascara mid-stroke to look at him. He seems to notice her attention on him, and gives her a grin.

“You’re such a control freak,” he jokes. “Can’t even let someone else plan one nice evening for you. When _I_ try to take you there it’s _Bellamy it’s too expensive I don’t even like Greek food that much_.”

Clarke huffs. “He _wanted_ me to plan it. And unlike _you_ he’s not insisting on paying for all of it. If you weren’t so fucking chivalrous maybe we could eat out together more.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Sorry for trying to do nice things for you.”

“Apology accepted,” Clarke says. She puts the finishing touches on her make-up, then sweeps her blonde curls up into a bun, with tendrils falling down around her face. “How do I look?” she asks, turning to face Bellamy.

He drops his eyes to the white robe she’s wearing.

“I don’t think they’ll let you in wearing that,” he says. Clarke pokes her tongue out at him, and he grins cheekily.

She pushes past him out of the bathroom, and he follows her down the hall to her room, where he waits outside while she gets dressed.

“Seriously, don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around?” Clarke calls through the door, as she pulls on the red dress she picked out for tonight.

She checks herself out in the mirror. Sufficiently cleavage bearing, yet classy enough for a nice restaurant.

“No,” Bellamy says. “We normally hang out together on Tuesdays, what am I supposed to do now?”

Clarke grabs a pair of heels from her closet and wrenches the door open, only to have Bellamy tumble almost on top of her, since he had been leaning on it.

“I didn’t realise hanging out on Tuesdays was a _thing_ ,” Clarke says, as Bellamy rights himself. “I thought we were both just too reclusive to see other people on weeknights.”

“It can be both,” he says defensively. He looks down at her dress, and Clarke resists the urge to kind of jut her chest out a little more. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“You look better in blue.”

Clarke snorts. “God forbid you give me a compliment,” she says.

“I compliment you all the time.”

“Not about my looks.”

“Don’t be so shallow,” he snarks.

Clarke purses her lips, unimpressed. “I’m leaving now. I’m meeting Finn at the restaurant in twenty minutes.”

“He’s not even picking you up? Some date he is.”

“Good _bye,_ Bellamy,” she says, as he follows her to the front door. She uses him to lean on as she slips her heels on.

“Have a nice night, _princess_.”

“Jackass.”

-

Dinner with Finn is nice. Bellamy was right about the restaurant—Clarke loves it. She feels like she’s actually in Greece, and the food is amazing, as is the wine. And Finn is honestly not bad company. He’s attentive, and funny, and even a little charming. He’s no _Bellamy,_ obviously, but he’s cute and they have some stuff in common, and she has a good time.

And at the end of the date, he even offers to pay. She declines, obviously, and she figures he’s only offering in the hopes of sealing the deal of getting lucky tonight. But since Clarke was already planning on fucking him, it’s totally unnecessary.

The breeze is warm on her skin as the two of them leave the restaurant, Finn’s arm brushing against hers, and then they’re standing kind of awkwardly on the street together, both no doubt waiting for the other to make the offer of going back to their place.

“You look gorgeous tonight, by the way,” Finn says. “Red really suits you, princess.”

“You said that already,” Clarke says, but she smiles, because it’s nice to hear, even if it’s just a line.

“You want me to book an Uber for you?” he asks, and Clarke almost laughs. He really is doing the most to act like he’s not expecting sex tonight.

“Don’t you want to come home with me?” she says, raising an eyebrow, amused.

He grins. “I mean—if you’re offering.”

The Uber arrives in a few minutes, and Clarke and Finn slide into the backseat. It’s not until they’re almost back at Clarke’s apartment that she feels it. Lips against her neck. She rubs at the spot on impulse, though she knows by now she can’t make it stop.

Huge, hot hands glide over her ribs and down her back to grip her ass, and she can feel Bellamy’s large form press against the front of her body. She squirms in her seat, her heart pounding, a hot flush spreading over her skin.

The Uber pulls up just as she feels a hand cup her pussy, covering her completely. Fucking hell, his hands are so big. She’s fantasized about his hands a _lot_ , and god, knowing now what they actually feel like—it’s a sweet kind of torture.

She drags Finn inside, and he seems a little bewildered at her enthusiasm, but he’s also not complaining. She can hear Bellamy’s sex playlist, but not Roma’s over-the-top screams. Just more evidence that it was all a performance just for Clarke.

Bellamy’s fingers sink into her cunt just as she shuts her bedroom door, and she has to stifle a moan. She pushes Finn onto the bed, then hurriedly searches for a condom in her underwear drawer, squeezing her legs together as Bellamy’s fingers thrust inside her.

She locates the condom, then flies onto the bed before her knees can buckle under her. Finn’s hands grab for her tits, and she lets him fondle her while she makes quick work of his pants and boxers, letting his half-hard cock spring free.

Bellamy’s fingers pick up the pace, and Clarke can’t stop herself from moaning. She doubles over as a third finger works its way inside her, and Finn frees her tits from her dress and bra so he can play with her tits properly.

“Fuck,” she groans. “Fuck, that’s so good.”

“You like that, princess?” Finn says excitedly. Clarke nods, though her pleasure is nothing to do with Finn’s amateur boob squeezing, and everything to do with the three massive fingers filling her pussy, and now the thumb circling her clit.

Clarke shoves the condom into Finn’s hand, incapable of doing it herself now, due to the fact that she’s trembling all over, on the brink of orgasm. He rolls it onto his erection, and Clarke yanks her panties down to her knees, barely managing to impale herself on Finn’s cock before the waves of pleasure are rolling over her.

“Oh my god,” she squeals, panting heavily, rolling her hips, her hands fisting into Finn’s shirt.

“Wow, already?” Finn says in amazement. She wishes he would shut up. She wants to hear Bellamy’s deep, husky voice whispering to her instead.

It’s an odd sensation, having the ghost of Bellamy’s fingers inside her, as well as Finn’s actual cock—it’s like both are there, but not like both are there at the same time. They somehow overlap each other.

Then, Bellamy’s fingers are gone, and she’s left with Finn’s disappointing cock. It’s a perfectly acceptable cock, in the scheme of cocks—it’s just not Bellamy’s. She’s pretty sure nothing is ever going to compare to that feeling again. Just how is she supposed to get over him, when he’s the best sex she’s ever had, and he doesn’t even know about it?

Just as soon as his fingers are gone, she can feel his cock spread her open again, and then Finn’s cock may as well not be there at all, for all she can feel it. All she can feel is Bellamy, inside her, on top of her, his hard chest rubbing against her pointed nipples.

She rides Finn, as Bellamy fucks her. (Well, as he fucks Roma next door, technically). It’s less like having two men fuck her at the same time, and more like one man who happens to be able to touch her all over, in more places than it would be possible for one man to touch.

Finn is beneath her, his hands still on her waist, and Bellamy is pressed against her, fingertips digging into her biceps, like he’s holding her down roughly.

She thrusts her hips in time with Bellamy’s thrusts, rendering Finn incapable of anything but blissful groaning.

Clarke doesn’t suppress her own cries of pleasure tonight either. It had been hard enough the other night, and now she’s actually with someone, she doesn’t have to worry about it so much. She’ll be embarrassed later, probably, but right now all she can think about is Bellamy’s cock hitting that sweet spot inside her, driving her closer and closer to release, while she vigorously grinds on Finn’s cock.

Finn comes first, of course, although Clarke barely notices, with Bellamy still going. Clarke is only a minute behind him, her body going taut as she climaxes, and even if her previous moans were quiet enough to be drowned out by Bellamy’s music, there’s no way _this_ one is, and then she feels Bellamy’s hot seed flood into her, and it only draws her moan out longer.

She collapses then, slumping to the bed, beside Finn.

“Wow,” he croaks. “That was—wow.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees, still breathing heavy. Finn is probably going to let this go to his ego, but Clarke doesn’t have the heart to tell him his mediocre efforts were not the cause of her two earth-shattering orgasms. How would she explain it anyway?

The music from Bellamy’s room shuts off abruptly.

“He probably heard you, you know,” Finn says. “You were pretty loud.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“No!” Finn says hurriedly. “Of course not.” He turns onto his side, and he reaches for her, to take her into his arms. Clarke tenses up.

It makes no sense, because usually, all she wants after sex is to be spooned, have her hair played with, be tenderly kissed and held. But not by Finn.

“You should probably go,” she says, pulling the top of her dress back up to cover her naked chest. “We both have work in the morning.”

“Oh, right,” Finn says, and she can hear the hurt in his voice.

“But we should definitely go out again soon,” she says quickly, trying to ease her guilt. Somehow she kind of thought Finn didn’t really _have_ feelings. But she’s starting to suspect he actually likes her a lot more than she originally thought.

“Okay,” he agrees.

It doesn’t take him long to make himself presentable again—he hadn’t even gotten his clothes off. Clarke walks him to the door, and gives him a kiss on the cheek as he leaves, which he seems pleased by.

She shuts the door behind him, then turns to find Bellamy standing in the doorway to the kitchen, illuminated by the moonlight flooding in through the window behind him.

“The date went well then?” he says, his voice low and gravelly. It makes her shiver. She runs a hand self-consciously over her messy hair.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think he really likes me.”

“Of course he does, princess. Why wouldn’t he?” Bellamy replies.

“Don’t call me that,” Clarke huffs. She doesn’t want another reason to think about Bellamy while she’s with Finn. She hates the nickname when Finn says it, though she knows he thinks it’s charming. From Bellamy it’s teasing, used to annoy her, and yet she gets a thrill each time it slips from his lips.

He snorts. “That’s reserved for Finn, is it? Guess I’ll have to find my own nickname, like he suggested.”

“My name is perfectly fine,” she says. In fact, when _he_ says her name, she wants to melt. And it’s just her fucking name. But the way he says it—it always sounds so soft, so intimate. No wonder she’s in love with him.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m really happy for you. Goodnight, Clarke.”

“Goodnight,” she whispers back, but he’s already gone.

-

To Clarke’s surprising disappointment, she doesn’t feel Bellamy touching her for days after that. She doesn’t know if the curse if broken or if he just hasn’t seen Roma in a few days, but either way, she feels like she should be happy. Only she’s not. Some sick part of her actually _enjoyed_ being fucked by him, knowing she could do nothing about it. Knowing it’s the only way she’ll ever get to have him.

She tells herself it’s for the best, and tries to forget it ever happened. She’s almost glad of the distraction her mother provides her on Saturday night.

Clarke usually tries very hard to avoid her mom’s various attempts at integrating her into her high society social circle. There’s always some fundraiser, or gala, or ball, or whatever, that Clarke has usually got a convenient excuse to beg out of. Not this time, however.

It’s mostly because Abby is receiving some kind of prestigious award for her research in the cardiology field, and Clarke feels obligated to support her mother’s achievements by going to the awards ceremony, along with Marcus, Abby’s second husband. That’s the way Clarke still thinks of him—mom’s second husband. Never as her step-father.

Except she’d kind of forgotten about the event until the day of, when her mother had called her, half-an-hour ago, to inform Clarke they’d be picking her up at 7pm sharp.

Now, she’s currently thrown her entire wardrobe onto her bed, having not bought anything appropriate to wear, and finding she’s severely lacking in options.

“Clarke,” Bellamy calls from down the hall. “You know your mom is going to be here in like five minutes, right?”

“I’m having a crisis here, Bellamy!” she yells back.

A minute later, he appears in her bedroom. “Fashion emergency?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to wear to an awards ceremony?”

“Leather pants and a crop top.”

“Bellamy!” she wails.

“Are you taking Finn?”

“No, what’s that got to do with anything?”

“You should wear the dress you wore to Monty and Harper’s wedding. You looked really pretty that day,” he says.

Clarke can’t look at him, lest he notice the blotchy red blush that’s erupted across her face and chest at his compliment. God, she did say she wanted him to compliment her looks, but now she finds she can’t handle even the simplest comment without turning into a bashful mess.

“Okay,” she says. “Now get out so I can get changed.”

She pushes him out of the room, and wriggles into the dress, putting on the matching shoes just as her mom texts that the car is waiting out the front. She races out the door, throwing a goodbye over her shoulder at Bellamy as she goes.

Abby seems satisfied with her choice of attire, despite the amount of cleavage on display, and she isn’t scolded for being late, so she counts it as a win, and doesn’t even complain once about having to go to this stupid thing. Plus, her mom just seems so happy, Clarke doesn’t want to dampen the mood. She supposes it’s not every day you win an award, and even though Abby can be grating and Clarke prefers to spend short amounts of time with her, she decides to be proud and supportive of her mom’s achievement.

At the ceremony venue, they find their table, and Clarke is by far the youngest one on it. She smiles politely as her mom introduces her to the rest of the table, and tries to act like she’s happy to meet them. Cage Wallace and Dante Wallace, Lorelei Tsing, and Diana Sydney. Abby is clearly proud to show off her daughter, and honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how she not-so-subtly brags about Clarke’s achievements, like _Clarke_ is the one winning an award, and not Abby herself.

The ceremony is boring as hell, and Clarke is just glad there’s free alcohol to make it bearable. She’s sitting next to Dante Wallace, and even their shared love of art can’t make his company bearable. Still, she thinks she does a good job of acting like she’s having a good time.

It’s coming up to her mom’s category, when Clarke feels the weight of an invisible hand on her waist. Her stomach drops, and she quickly checks to make sure it’s not Dante making a move on her before she allows herself to truly panic.

She can feel the heat of a large body against her back, and it’s as if Bellamy is right behind her, pressed up against her naked form. She can feel him squeeze her ass, and she bites her lip to keep from letting out an embarrassing yelp.

This cannot be happening. Not here. _Please_ , not here. Not at a table with her mom’s friends, minutes from the moment when Abby will be called onstage to collect her award.

His hands disappear for a moment and Clarke breathes a momentary sigh of relief. Perhaps that was it. She’s sorely mistaken. She practically jumps out of her seat a second later when she feels his fingers again—not on her clit or in her cunt like she’s come to expect, no, this time she feels them pressed against her tight little asshole.

Her heartrate kicks up a notch, and a whine escapes her mouth, loud enough to make everyone at the table look at her. God, fuck. She blushes deep scarlet.

“Sorry,” she chokes out. “Foot cramp.”

The presenter starts reading out the criteria for her mom’s award, as Bellamy’s lubed up fingers worm past her tight opening and into her asshole. She wants to die. She absolutely wants to die. She’s never been touched there before, never thought she wanted it. And now she’s sitting at a table with a bunch of elderly conservatives while her asshole throbs around a pair of thick fingers. It’s absolute torture.

Abby’s list of accolades is read out to the audience, while Clarke is focused solely on trying to keep her breathing steady, on trying not to make a sound. She needs to get to the bathroom before it gets any worse. But _god_ it feels fucking good. As humiliating as it is to have her ass played with in the middle of a crowded room, it fucking turns her on. Her panties are already soaking.

The presenter calls out Abby’s name, and Clarke has just enough presence of mind to join in the applause as her mom makes her way up onto the stage.

Bellamy’s finger work in and out of her, like he’s trying to loosen her up for something bigger. Her pussy throbs at the thought of it—his cock, filling up her ass. God, she wants it. But not here, not while her mom is up on stage giving her acceptance speech. Not while the old pervert next to her stares at her cleavage, while her mom’s second husband eyes her with concern.

“Are you alright, Clarke?” Marcus asks, as Clarke’s eyes fill with tears from the strain of trying to keep it together. Her hands are fisted in her skirt, her legs crossed tightly over each other, her teeth gritted almost painfully.

“Uh huh,” Clarke manages. “Just—so proud of her.”

Thankfully, Abby’s speech isn’t a long one. Clarke doesn’t actually catch any of what her mom is saying, but she takes the crowd’s second round of applause as her cue to dart to the bathroom, her gait severely affected by the feeling of Bellamy’s fat fingers pumping in and out of her ass.

She locks herself in a bathroom stall just as Bellamy removes his fingers. She leans back against the door, the cool marble a relief against her hot skin. Her breathing is laboured, her heart racing, her eyes closed.

Her relief is short-lived, as a moment later she feels his fingers part her ass cheeks, and then the thick head of his cock is pressed against her hole. She whimpers pathetically, ass throbbing at the mere suggestion of his cock inside it.

He pushes into her, and _fuck_ , he’s so fucking thick. She’s sure her poor virgin asshole can’t take it. And yet, she has to take him, wants to take him.

She can’t stop the ragged moans that are pulled from her mouth as his cock stretches her open, and then her legs won’t support her anymore and she drops to the tiles on her knees.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Fuck. Oh my god.” She swears his cock feels even bigger than when it’s in her pussy, though it’s probably just because her ass is so fucking tight.

The toilet lid is down, and Clarke rests her arms over it, her head dropping to rest on her forearm as he gives a massive thrust, and then he’s completely inside her, his pelvis pressed against her, his cock filling her completely. The pressure is so great she feels like she might combust.

He starts fucking her ass in earnest then, and though she tries to stifle her moans with her arm, she’s not sure she’s entirely successful. She’s vaguely aware of the sounds of other people in the bathroom, but she’s too far gone to focus on anything but the steady pounding of Bellamy’s cock in her ass.

She can feel her orgasm building—fuck, she never thought she’d be able to get off from having her ass fucked. The thought was always kind of filthy and taboo before—which only makes it hotter now.

“ _Yes_ ,” she hears herself groan, as his fingers come to caress her clit, almost like he knows she’s not far off.

She bites into her arm as she comes, a shuddering, high-pitched moan only just smothered by her skin. She gushes into her panties, and her whole body quivers. His come floods into her ass, and then he falls still, but she can feel his body covering hers where she’s slumped over the toilet.

She sits there for god knows how long, trying to recover. Her breathing eventually returns to semi-normal, and she wipes the tears from her eyes. She’s shaking as she collects herself from the bathroom floor, using the stall walls to keep herself steady, since her legs don’t seem to be entirely dependable right now.

The bathroom is empty now, thankfully, but heat blooms in her cheeks when she thinks about who might have heard her. She wonders if she can pass it off as bowel troubles if someone asks. Still embarrassing, but less embarrassing than the truth.

She splashes water over her face to cool herself down, then tries to fix her hair and make-up as best she can in the bathroom mirror, before taking a deep breath and going back out to face her mom.

“Clarke, there you are,” Abby says, brandishing her spiky glass trophy, her named engraved across the bottom.

“Sorry, had to duck to the bathroom,” she says. “Congratulations, Mom.” She pulls her mother into a hug.

“Are you alright?” Abby asks. “Lorelei went to check on you, and said she heard you groaning in the bathroom.”

Clarke swallows, blush spreading across her face again. “I’m fine,” she says. “Must’ve eaten something funny.”

“Oh dear,” Abby says, concerned. “Perhaps you’d better go home.”

“I think that would be best,” Clarke agrees, relieved, and she starts gathering her things before Abby can change her mind.

-

It’s a lot, seeing Bellamy in the kitchen the next morning, before she’s even had her coffee. She hopes it doesn’t show on her face that she spent the whole night masturbating to the thought of him fucking her ass. But not until after she’d felt him fucking Roma for a second time that night, not in her ass again, thankfully, but just as orgasm inducing all the same.

She fucking blushes when his hand grazes hers as he hands her the cup of coffee he made her, so she doesn’t think she’s doing a great job of acting unaffected.

“How was last night?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee. He’s wearing a shirt, which is a blessing, but he still looks unfairly sexy for first thing on a Sunday morning, with his hair all messed from sleep.

“Um,” Clarke says, because of course, all she can think about is how those fingers that are so casually wrapped around his mug right now were shoved in her asshole mere hours ago. “It was okay. Mom seemed really happy. But I left early because I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, lines of concern creasing his face. “I would’ve come home earlier if I’d known. I was at Roma’s.”

“I know,” Clarke says. “I mean, I guessed.”

“You should’ve messaged me, I would’ve come home.”

“So you could mope at home with me?”

“So I could take care of you.”

_That_ makes her blush too. The thought of him taking care of her. She swallows a mouthful of coffee. It’s too hot, and she scalds her tongue.

“It wasn’t that bad. Just drank too much I think.”

“Classic you,” he grins. “Still. I would’ve taken care of you.”

“I know,” she smiles.

“What are you doing tonight? I could cook us some dinner and maybe we can watch that new Netflix romcom.”

“You want to watch a romcom? That’s unlike you.”

“I like romcoms,” he says defensively.

“Well, I can’t anyway. I have a date with Finn since I had to cancel last night because of Mom’s award thingy.”

“Oh,” he says. He actually seems kind of disappointed. “Okay, well. Have fun.”

“Thanks. I’ll probably stay at his place.” It’s a subtle hint that he should invite Roma over. Perhaps Clarke is starting to like this curse a little too much, despite last night’s humiliating turn of events.

Bellamy nods. “Okay,” he says. “Good to know.”

-

This time Finn plans the date—he orders Chinese and puts basketball on TV. Which is not entirely his fault, because Clarke has never told him she hates sports, and may have even accidentally implied she’d like to go to a game with him at one point. Still, going out to a basketball game is a little different than sitting in front of his TV watching it while they eat Chinese food from their laps out of plastic containers.

But Finn seems so earnest and excited that Clarke doesn’t have the heart to tell him this isn’t exactly her idea of a romantic evening.

Being pressed against him on his couch isn’t so bad though, and he obviously made an effort to clean up for her, so it’s not all bad. And halfway through the game, when the food is gone, Clarke starts to feel Bellamy’s hands on her. Thank god.

She stops pretending to pay attention to the game, and instead turns her attention to Finn, kissing his cheek first, then down his jaw, until she reaches his neck. At the same time, Bellamy’s hand finds its way between her legs, stroking her over her panties, making her wetter by the second.

“Clarke, the game,” Finn whines.

“Is that really more exciting than me fucking you?” she whispers.

Finn considers. “I guess not,” he agrees. He kisses her, and Clarke moans into the kiss, though it’s more to do with the feel of Bellamy’s fingers on her clit than anything else. She grabs Finn’s hand and guides it under her skirt, trying to emulate the feeling of Bellamy’s fingers with Finn’s.

She pulls Finn on top of her, and he follows her lead, pushing her panties aside and delving his fingers into her, moments before Bellamy does the same thing. Clarke grinds against his hand, barely noticing his lips on her neck, only aware of the two sets of fingers inside her.

“Fuck me,” she breathes, and in reality she’s talking to Bellamy, but she doesn’t blame Finn for thinking she means him. He has a condom ready, pulled from his pocket or somewhere, and he hurries to remove his pants and underwear so he can get it on, while Clarke moans under Bellamy’s expert touch.

His fingers are soon replaced with his tongue, lapping at the arousal leaking from her cunt, then teasing her clit. Clarke arches her back, squeezing the couch cushions beneath her with her fists as she gasps.

“God, I’m not even touching you,” Finn says in awe. He’s got the condom on now, and he’s getting ready to line himself up so he can fuck her.

“Wait, not yet,” Clarke says, stopping him. She doesn’t want him inside her until she can feel Bellamy inside her.

Finn looks at her like a forlorn puppy—like he’s not quite sure what else to do with her if he doesn’t have his cock in her. Lucky for him, it only takes a moment before Bellamy is pulling his mouth away from her cunt, and Clarke wraps her hand around Finn’s cock, guiding him inside her at the same time as Bellamy stretches her open.

“God, you’re so big,” Clarke whines, and again Finn assumes she’s talking to him, though his dick is only average size.

“I’ve never been with anyone like you before,” Finn groans. He already sounds like he’s straining not to blow his load.

Finn’s thrusts aren’t exactly in time with Bellamy’s—Bellamy’s are harder, slightly slower, more powerful, whereas Finn is obviously just trying to get off as fast as he can. It’s a little disconcerting, but Clarke manages to ignore Finn entirely, closing her eyes and picturing Bellamy on top of her.

Her imagination is pretty vivid at this point, especially since the sensations are actually real. She clutches at Finn’s back, though he’s not broad enough to be Bellamy, and that’s really the only thing keeping her even slightly tethered to this reality.

By some miracle, Clarke can feel herself nearing release, getting there faster than Finn, despite his vigorous thrusting and his history of lacklustre performances.

“Please,” Clarke moans. “I’m almost there. Fuck, just there. Oh my god, _Bellamy_.”

She doesn’t realise what she’s said at first, too wrapped up in her own pleasure crashing over her, one orgasm, quickly followed by another, as Bellamy comes too. She doesn’t notice that Finn has pulled out, that he’s frozen in place, staring at her in horror, until the aftershocks have faded away.

“ _Bellamy?_ ” he says in disgust.

She blinks up at him, taking a second to register what he means. And then she realises what she said. “Finn,” she says, sitting up quickly. But no other words follow it. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say to make this better.

Finn eyes her with hurt and humiliation. “I fucking knew you had a thing for him,” he spits.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. She can’t even bring herself to deny it. It’s pretty fucking obvious when she just moaned his name as she came.

“You were thinking about him the whole time, huh? I’m just a poor replacement.”

Clarke swallows. “Don’t torture yourself like this,” she says, still not denying any of it.

“Get out,” Finn snaps. “I don’t want to see you again.”

Clarke picks herself up off the couch, straightening her skirt and grabbing her phone. She can feel Finn watching her, but she can’t look at him. The whole thing is too shameful. Being dumped and kicked out of your boyfriend’s apartment because you accidentally said another man’s name while he was fucking you? Not a story Clarke is going to be repeating to anyone. Of course, it’s exactly the kind of thing that would inevitably happen to her.

She grabs her shoes from by the door and slinks out of Finn’s apartment, taking an Uber back to her own. She’s worried she’ll run into Bellamy and she’ll have to explain what she’s doing home when she told him she’d be at Finn’s, but he’s not even there. Must’ve decided to spend the night at Roma’s instead. At least she doesn’t have to face him yet.

-

It’s kind of idiotic of her not to have prepared an excuse about the break up with Finn by the time Bellamy asks about it on Tuesday night.

She’s in her room, sitting on the floor, hands covered in paint, and probably her clothes and face and carpet too. She’d started this project on a whim, and she probably shouldn’t have started it in her room, but it’s too late to move it now.

“What no date tonight?” Bellamy asks, wandering into her room.

Clarke doesn’t look up. “We broke up.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Clarke shrugs. She looks up at his apologetic expression.

“What happened?”

She looks away again, her brain scrambling for some acceptable excuse for the break up that isn’t too dramatic, or worse, the truth.

“The sex was bad,” she blurts out, already reddening under the confession. She couldn’t come up with _anything_ better than that?

Bellamy snorts. “Yeah, right. You sounded like you were having a pretty good time the other night when he was over.”

“Trust me, that was all you,” Clarke scoffs, unthinking. Her stomach drops when she realises what she’s said. Has her brain recently become disconnected from her mouth?

She whips her head around, looking up at him with a horrified expression, while he stares at her in shock.

“What?” he chokes out. “What do _I_ have to do with—you don’t—think about _me…_ ” he trails off. The tips of his ears are bright red.

“No!” Clarke says hurriedly, leaping up from the floor. “No, that’s not what I meant, I—” she swallows, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Is there any way to salvage this?

“Then what did you mean?”

She bites her lip. Her face is so hot she feels like she could burst into flame at any second.

“Um, the thing is—” she stammers. And then the truth—well, most of it—comes tumbling out. “You know that wishing well at Monty and Harper’s wedding? Well, I kind of saw you and Roma come out of the maze and she looked so smug and self-satisfied. And then I accidentally wished that—that I knew what it felt like to fuck you.”

His mouth drops open. “You wanted—” he starts, but Clarke cuts him off before he can jump to conclusions.

“Just because, you know, women always seem very, um, pleased with your performance. Purely a physical thing,” she asserts, and Bellamy snaps his mouth closed. “I didn’t think anything of it because I don’t believe in wishes or whatever, but then I started being able to _feel_ you.”

“Feel me,” he croaks out.

“When you were with Roma at the bar, and you fingered her in the bathroom,” Clarke whispers, feeling mortified. “I could feel it. Everything you were doing to her. And every time you’ve fucked her after that.”

Bellamy stares at her, and she can’t decipher his expression. “Are you fucking with me?” he asks, but she can tell he’s already starting to believe it.

“It sounds crazy, I know,” Clarke says. “But I swear it’s true.”

Bellamy groans, rubbing his hand across his face. “Fuck,” he says hoarsely. “So the other night, at your mom’s presentation—”

“Yes,” Clarke cuts him off. “I came home because I could feel you—you know.”

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Oh my god.”

It doesn’t seem like he’s having a hard time believing it’s true—Clarke isn’t sure if that’s a relief or not. He seems horrified. Clarke doesn’t blame him. She can’t believe she’s even admitted it out loud to him. Now he _knows_. Now every time he fucks Roma, he’ll know that Clarke can feel it too.

“God, I’m sorry,” he says.

“ _You’re_ sorry?”

“I mean, haven’t I basically been fucking—molesting you?”

Clarke shakes her head quickly. She certainly never saw it that way. It’s not like he _knew_ he was doing it. “No, I—it wasn’t like that. Sure, it was unexpected, but um—I wanted it.” It pains her to admit that to him, as if this whole thing isn’t embarrassing enough. But she can’t let him go around feeling guilty about something he had no control over.

“Right,” he says faintly. “Right. Okay.” He looks lost, and embarrassed. “Well. Sorry again,” he says, and then he flees from the room. Clarke doesn’t blame him.

She slams the door shut behind him, then groans at the excruciating humiliation of it all. She throws herself on her bed dramatically, feeling pathetic. Why the fuck did she tell him? He’ll probably avoid her for the foreseeable future, maybe never speak to her again. Tears prick at her eyes, and she knows she’s absolutely ruined everything.

-

She’s late for work the next day, because she refuses to get out of bed until she’s sure Bellamy has left the apartment. She can’t face him, not after the mortifying experience that was last night. He must think she’s seriously disturbed after everything she admitted to him. He’s probably already started packing his things so he can move out as soon as possible.

She avoids him when she gets home too, beelining straight for her room when she can hear him in the kitchen, humming loudly as he makes dinner. She’ll have to wait until he’s gone to bed and she can order in, or else secretly pilfer some of his leftovers from the fridge.

What she doesn’t expect is for him to knock on her door an hour later to tell her dinner’s ready, as if everything is completely normal.

She cracks her bedroom door open, then cautiously creeps down the hallway, stopping in the doorway to the dining-slash-living area, where Bellamy already has the table set and two plates of something that has Clarke’s stomach growling and her mouth watering.

He looks over at her as he finishes pouring two glasses of red wine. “Are you okay?” he asks, noticing her hesitation.

Clarke nods. She wanders over to the table. “I just—thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see me. After what I told you last night.”

He pulls her chair out and she sits down.

“Clarke, come on,” he says, joining her across the table. “How could you know some off-the-cuff wish would turn into _that_?”

“You’re not mad at me? Or like—disgusted by me?”

He shakes his head. “Of course not,” he says. He tilts his head, considering. “I was very embarrassed,” he admits. “Thinking about the things you must have felt.”

Clarke flushes. “Trust me, you have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He ducks his head, only more embarrassed now, but he’s smiling. “Things don’t have to be weird between us,” he says.

Clarke nods, relief spreading through her chest. “Good,” she says. “Can we eat now? Because this smells amazing and I’m starving.”

“Dig in,” Bellamy laughs.

The food is amazing, and the company is great, and Clarke doesn’t even feel awkward anymore. Bellamy always has this way of being able to make her feel at ease, and they talk and laugh their way through dinner, as if nothing has changed. And maybe nothing has changed. That should be a good thing, and yet Clarke can’t help but feel a tiny twinge of disappointment. She’d basically admitted she wants to have sex with him, and he’d done nothing about it.

So that settles it then—he really only thinks of her as a friend, nothing more. At least now she knows for sure.

After dinner, Clarke offers to wash up, but Bellamy waves her away, taking their plates to the kitchen while Clarke finishes her second glass of wine.

He returns to the room and sits back down across from her, pouring himself another glass of wine.

“You mind if I put some music on?” he asks.

Clarke shakes her head. “Go for it.”

He taps at his phone for a moment, and then the unmistakeable first bars of Can’t Fight the Moonlight by LeAnn Rimes start playing. Clarke grins.

“I love this song,” she says.

“I know.”

She sings along, Bellamy watching her with an idiotic grin on his face, until he holds out his hand.

“Dance with me,” he says. Clarke grabs his hand without hesitation, and he pulls her up.

Their dancing is not technical in the slightest. It’s the kind of dancing Clarke hasn’t done since her senior prom, when she and her friends acted like complete idiots, scaring everyone else off the dancefloor as they jumped around and lip-synced to Teenage Dream by Katy Perry.

Bellamy spins her around, her hand still in his, and they’re laughing, and she feels giddy. But then towards the end of the song, he tugs her close, and his hands are on her waist, his breath against her ear, and it’s not funny anymore.

Her heart stutters. His body is pressed against hers, and her skin is on fire. She rests her head on his chest, trying not to make too much out of this moment. The song ends, and a song by The Weeknd starts playing. Clarke’s stomach flips over.

“Bellamy,” she squeaks. “This is your sex playlist,” she realises.

He freezes, pulling back a little. “You know about that?”

Clarke nods. She giggles nervously. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Bellamy doesn’t laugh. “Well,” he says. He licks his lips. “I just think it’s a little unfair that you know what it’s like to fuck me, but I don’t know what it’s like to fuck you.”

Her breath hitches. She opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out. He leans in, taking advantage of her open mouth to press his lips against hers, and slip his tongue inside.

It’s tender, and teasing, but unbelievably dirty, the way he kisses her. Her arms circle around his neck, and she crushes her body to his as she kisses him back, hardly daring to believe it’s actually _real_.

But she can taste the wine on his tongue, hear him groan when she slides her tongue across his, hear him murmur her name as he pulls his mouth from hers.

“ _Clarke_.” And it’s real, it’s really real.

His hands slide up to her ribs, stopping just shy of cupping her breasts.

“What about Roma?” Clarke forces herself to ask, forehead pressed against his, lips millimetres from each other. Her heart is fluttering wildly in her chest.

“It’s over,” Bellamy whispers. “I ended it this morning. After an agonizing night of thinking about _you_. My hands on you. My lips on you.”

“You broke up with your girlfriend just so you could have sex with me?”

“Clarke,” he groans. “Is this really purely a physical thing for you? Because—because it’s not for me.”

She shakes her head. “Bellamy—"

He cuts her off with a kiss. “I love you,” he tells her, and she feels like her heart might burst. “I’m so in love with you, and I have been for a very long time.”

Clarke whimpers as he kisses her again. She feels like she might cry. “I love you too,” she says, and god, it feels good to finally say it out loud. He smiles against her mouth.

He picks her up then, and carries her to his room, which she can’t help but notice has been recently cleaned, with brand new sheets on the bed. She’s beginning to realise this whole night was a _date_. He planned this all out, just for her.

He lays her down on the bed, still kissing her. There was never this much kissing when she could feel him with Roma. His lips trail from hers to her neck and his hands push her shirt up, and she helps him pull it over her head to reveal her pretty blue bra. Her stares at her in awe for a moment, fingering the lace, the slight touch making her skin erupt in goosebumps.

“Pretty,” he murmurs.

“Do you think so?”

“Always have. I couldn’t say it out loud though,” he grimaces. “Then you might’ve figured out how much I actually liked you.”

Clarke smiles bashfully. Bellamy leans down, and presses his mouth against the smooth curve of her breast. A hand slides under her, and he deftly uncinches the clasp in one move. He pulls the bra away from her body with the other hand, revealing her naked tits.

“Fuck,” he groans. “God, baby, you’re so fucking gorgeous.” Clarke thrills at the sound of his voice. “The amount of times I’ve thought about this. Your tits are amazing.”

He brings his mouth to her breast again, kissing them all over, playing with her nipples, caressing her with his hands too, and Clarke realises she’s never actually felt him do this before. Never felt him touch her tits.

In fact, everything about this is different from what she’s felt from him before. Not just because he’s so much more _solid,_ or because his voice, the sounds he’s making, make it all that much more real. And not different enough for her to second guess whether it had been him all along—she recognises the feel of his mouth, the weight of his hands.

But it’s much more tender, much slower. His technique is different. Not that she’s complaining. The way he’s playing with her tits has her squirming, her arousal dripping into her panties.

She spreads her legs, grabs the hand that’s resting on her waist and slides it down the front of her skirt, so she can feel him against her cunt through her panties. She can do that now—let him know what she wants.

He chuckles, her hard nipple popping out of his mouth. “Eager little thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs. His fingers dance over the wet spot on her panties. “And so wet,” he groans. “God, Clarke. Your panties are drenched.”

He kisses her belly, while he pulls her skirt off, so she’s just in her white panties, and Clarke runs her fingers through his soft curls.

Bellamy lowers his head to her cunt, mouth against the wet patch, tongue darting out to taste her for the first time. None of this is new to her, and yet at the same time it is. She knows what his tongue feels like in her cunt, but she doesn’t know what he looks like with his head buried between her legs, what he thinks of the taste of her, how he sounds as he licks her pussy.

He gives a satisfied hum, vibrating against her clit, and Clarke whines. He lifts his head so he can drag her panties down, slipping them over her ankles and discarding them on the floor with the rest of her clothes.

“Fuck,” he groans, drinking her in. “You’re even more perfect that I imagined.”

“Shut up,” Clarke laughs, blushing from head to toe.

He grins up at her. “Okay, I’ll shut up,” he agrees, then puts his lips back on her pussy. His tongue slips between her folds, locating her clit, then teasing her mercilessly, until she’s unable to keep still, writhing on his bed, her hands in his hair, pushing his face deeper into her cunt, gasping for air.

“Oh my god, Bellamy,” she moans. He delves his tongue inside her, angling just right to tip her over the edge, and she comes so hard she thinks she almost rips the hair from his head.

He tilts his head up, and Clarke looks down at him, her chest rising and falling heavily. His chin is covered in her juices, and the slow way he licks his lips, like he’s savouring the taste of her, makes her hot all over again.

“Why haven’t I seen you naked yet?” Clarke huffs out, her voice shaky. How is he still all composed while she’s a trembling mess?

“Oh, you want to see me naked, do you?” he teases.

Clarke nods, and Bellamy grins as he lifts himself to his knees, then drags his shirt over his head in that erotic way men do. She’s seen him shirtless before of course, but she can never quite get over how stupidly sexy he is.

Her eyes are glued to his hands as he undoes his belt slowly, and then his fly. She’s desperate to know if his cock looks as good as it feels. He shucks his jeans, and there’s an enticing bulge in his boxers that Clarke has visceral urge to put her mouth on. It makes her realise that she’s never actually felt him in her mouth before. A crime that needs to be rectified urgently.

He sheds his boxers, and then he’s there in all his naked glory, thick and long and fucking magnificent. She needs him inside her for real.

He seems to sense this, or perhaps he’s just getting desperate himself, because then his lips are back on hers, devouring her, and his cock bumps against her stomach before he settles between her thighs.

“I need to get a condom,” he pants, as if he’s just remembered.

“No,” Clarke whines. “I want to feel you. I’m on birth control I promise. If Roma gets to have your come in her, I want it too.”

He groans. “Fucking hell, that’s filthy. I always used a condom with Roma though.”

“But I could feel it.”

“Maybe that part was your imagination,” he suggests.

Clarke doesn’t have the patience to debate the ins and outs of the curse. She just tilts her hips up, rubbing herself against his cock, while she drags her teeth across his bottom lip possessively. The moan that escapes his mouth is thrilling.

“Fuck me,” she begs him. She finally gets to do that for real now. “Fuck me so hard I’ll feel it for days, so I know it’s real.”

“It’s real, Clarke,” he promises. “I’m gonna show you it’s real.”

The head of his cock parts her folds, and then he’s sinking into her, and despite the week of phantom sex, her body isn’t used to him, because he’s never _actually_ been inside her before. The stretch is unbelievable, and Clarke’s eyes start to water as he continues to push into her.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Fuck. Oh god, it’s big.”

He stops to kiss her, and wipe her tears. “Are you okay?”

She nods frantically. “Yes,” she says. “God, yes. Don’t stop. Please.”

“I’m almost there,” he promises. He pushes further, giving her another inch, and then he’s all the way inside her, and she’s pulsing around him, feeling fuller than she’s ever been. She feels like she could come from this feeling alone.

His lips find her skin again as he rocks his hips into her, his cock dragging on every nerve ending as he fucks her. His body covers hers, his chest against her bouncing tits, stimulating her aching nipples. He doesn’t stop touching her, or kissing her, the whole time.

“Did you come every time?” he asks.

“What?” Clarke replies faintly. How can she be expected to make conversation when his cock is making her feel like _this_?

“Every time you felt me?”

“Yes,” Clarke moans. It’s an answer to the question, as well as the response to a particularly well-placed thrust.

“Even when my cock was in your ass?”

“Oh my god,” Clarke groans. The reminder of his cock in her ass only sends her hurtling towards orgasm even faster. “Yes.”

“So you like it,” he continues. His voice is at least strained and stilted, his breathing ragged, so he’s not totally collected. Clarke’s ego would have taken a hit if he were. “Having your ass played with.”

Clarke just whimpers, nodding. A moment later, she feels his thick finger press against her asshole, working its way inside. She’s an absolute wreck now, and Bellamy seems to be getting desperate himself. He fucks her harder, and she knows she won’t be able to walk straight for days, especially with him now fingering her ass with two fat digits.

She cries out his name as she comes. Chants it actually.

“ _Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy_.” It tears from her lungs as her body spasms, and she thinks she almost blacks out.

Her name falls from his lips too, as he follows her over the edge, and it sounds even better like that, deep and guttural and wrecked. His come spills into her, and it feels so fucking right to finally get to feel it for real.

“Fucking hell,” Bellamy puffs, still on top of her, his cock holding his come inside her.

Clarke laughs. “Yeah,” she agrees. By far the best sex she’s ever had. She wonders if even he will be able to live up to it again.

He strokes her skin with his fingers, and presses his lips to her shoulder. “Was the real thing as good as you thought it would be?”

“It was better,” Clarke murmurs. “It was so different than what I’d felt before.”

He chuckles. “You didn’t really think I’d fuck _you_ the same way I fucked anyone else, did you?”

“Oh? What makes me so special?”

“Maybe the fact that I’m in love with you.” Clarke’s heart skips a beat, and she’s fucking blushing. Bellamy grins at her gleefully. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he tells her.

“You’re annoying,” Clarke says, poking her tongue out.

“But you love me.”

Clarke nods shyly. “I love you,” she confirms.

He slips from her cunt then, and rolls onto the bed beside her. Come drips onto her thighs, and her pussy is already starting to feel bruised and sore. Clarke relishes both feelings, reminders that it’s not just an imitation this time.

“You know why Finn broke up with me?” Clarke says. “I said your name. I could feel you while he was fucking me, and I said your name instead of his. He dumped me on the spot.”

“I hope he was fucking seething with jealousy, the way I was,” Bellamy grunts.

“You were jealous?” she asks gleefully, snuggling up to his side.

“You fucking took him to the restaurant _I_ wanted to take you on a date to,” he pouts. “How could I not be jealous? And you have no idea how relieved I was when you didn’t go home with him after Monty and Harper’s wedding. Made me sick to see you looking like that, knowing he was the one who would get to enjoy it. Hearing him call you princess, like he would ever actually treat you like one.”

Clarke tries not to be too pleased about this development. After all, she knows exactly how painful her own jealousy had been. “Well, how do you think I felt?” she huffs. “Seeing you come out of the maze with Roma?”

“How was I supposed to know you were into me?”

“How was _I_ supposed to know _you_ were into _me_?”

Bellamy snorts. “Point taken.”

“You know,” Clarke says. “You can call me princess if you want to.”

“I thought you hated it when I called you that.”

“No,” Clarke says. “I like it much better when you say it.”

“I can think of much better nicknames to call you.”

“Oh?”

He lifts himself on top of her. “Baby,” he suggests. He kisses her forehead. “Darling.” He kisses her cheek. “Sweetheart.” He kisses her other cheek. “My love.” He kisses her lips, and Clarke swoons.

“You can call me any and all of those things.”

She can feel his cock start to harden again against her thigh, and she reaches down to stroke him. “Bellamy,” she says, biting her lip. “Did Roma ever—go down on you?”

He glances away, uncomfortable. “Uh, no, not really. She didn’t like doing it.”

“Then she’s an idiot,” Clarke says. She sits up, and gives him a small push, flipping their positions so she’s on top of him. She kisses his sweaty chest, trails her fingers along his abs. “I want you in my mouth,” she tells him.

“Please,” he groans.

Clarke kisses down his torso, runs her tongue over his stomach, down the small trail of hair that leads to his pelvis, his cock bumping against her chin. She takes him into her mouth like the practised expert she is, and worships him like he deserves. She teases him until he’s a blubbering mess, like she was, and then she finally lets him have release, savouring the taste of him on her tongue, then swallowing his come greedily.

“Fuck, Clarke,” he pants. “Baby. Your mouth—” her cuts himself off with a groan, and Clarke figures that’s compliment enough.

She cuddles back up to him, and he wraps her in his arms. She doesn’t think she’d ever felt quite so content as this. Lying in best friend’s arms, blissfully in love, with the feeling reciprocated.

“Do you think the curse is broken?” she asks him.

“I think,” he says, kissing her temple. “It doesn’t matter. Since I’m not planning on fucking anyone else ever again.”


End file.
